Book of the Dead
by LizBee
Summary: On her deathbed, Janeway experiences hallucinations


THE BOOK OF THE DEAD   
by Elizabeth M. Barr   
October, 2000   
rated R for some language   
J/C   
  
Comments: elizabeth_barr@yahoo.com.au  
Homepage: http://www.geocities.com/elizabeth_barr/  
  
This was inspired by Lisa Mason's beautiful short story "Hummers", published in The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, 5th annual collection, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling. I give all this detail because it's a wonderful story (for the over-18s, I also recommend "The Kind Men Like" by Karl Edward Wagner, from the same collection, but I'm not even gonna *try* writing a fic from that).   
  
ASC Awards: Winner, Best Janeway/Chakotay story of 2000   
  
  
  
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Spring has always been Kathryn's favourite season, with its warm air and bright colours. A time for renewal, a time for life.   
  
Also a time for death as it turns out: hers.   
  
It's not like it comes as a surprise. One dangerous away mission too many, the doctors had told her a year ago, immune system weakened, body unable to cope with twenty years of abuse.   
  
"Abuse", he had called it. Yeah, well, she'd just been having so much fun in that Cardassian prison camp, why, she didn't want to leave! And you got used to the radiation in the atmosphere of Segal Prime. Just like a rose garden really, quite ungrateful of the Segali to request an evacuation.   
  
Abuse, hell. Twenty years of service to Starfleet and the Federation, and all she gets is a lingering death and the superior attitudes of Starfleet Medical's finest.   
  
Kathryn snorts and wishes that she had the strength to throw something. She's pissed off, by her imminent death, by these fucking doctors who've never left the planet, never sacrificed their marriage, never lost everything they'd ever wanted.   
  
She's pissed off because the pain in her side -- sometimes it moves, but today it's in her side -- is worse than ever, and because Mark's coming to visit later and she'll have to be civil. She's pissed off because the spring light is too bright for her eyes, and the big window in her bedroom has been covered by a heavy curtain. And she's hallucinating again: that pretty starship, that crew. And herself, the captain.   
  
  
"Captain Janeway?" The little man with the spots and orange whiskers looks like nothing she's seen in the alpha quadrant, but she greets him with a smile, because, well, this is Neelix, and he's devoted to her, and even the weakest smile is reflected in his obvious joy. "Captain, I have a *small* request..."   
  
And they continue touring her ship, this lovely vessel that doesn't exist, with the crew that's closer than family. And she is the captain, and they care about her, even when she pushes them away.   
  
  
Mark hands her a package, loosely wrapped so she won't have to tax her strength -- or worse, ask for his help -- in opening it.   
  
It's books, of course, Mark's answer to everything. That's Mark for you, lovely guy, wife can be a bitch, but she's lovely too. Deep down. And then they divorced, and now she's dying, and she doesn't want to waste her remaining weeks pretending to be grateful for books she'll never get to read.   
  
Mark stays for a couple of hours, telling her about his work, pretending that she's listening. An amicable divorce. He'd wanted her to spend more time on Earth; she had wanted to explore deep space, or defend the Federation from the Dominion, or do *something* other than attend work functions and teach astrophysics at the Academy. The split had been his idea.   
  
Three weeks into a two year mission, she had collapsed at her station, and the captain had made her go home. Home. She wished she'd lasted a few more months, long enough that she could have stayed on board and died in space. What did she have on Earth? An ex-husband, an aging mother who didn't recognise her, a sister she rarely spoke to.   
  
There might have been children -- there could have been children -- but there'd always been *something* happening, some war to fight, some phenomenon to investigate. She's glad now, that there are no young children who have to deal with their mother's death, who have to remember her writhing in pain when the drugs become useless.   
  
Mark's voice drones on. She shuts her eyes and thinks of the delta quadrant.   
  
  
Candlelight and wine, sparkling brown eyes. Kathryn has no idea where Chakotay comes from, but obviously her subconscious is more interesting than she'd believed. Perhaps she knew him in high school, perhaps she caught a glimpse of him in a coffee shop. Perhaps she has created him from scratch.   
  
"Captain," he says, "Kathryn..."   
  
She wonders what he would say if she told him that he was just the figment of a dying woman's imagination. She can think of worse people to hold her hand as she slips away.   
  
  
One of the books Mark gave her is a replica of the Egyptian Book of the Dead. She stares at the two-dimensional figures, with their hands raised in worship, and wonders whether any of them hallucinated about commanding a lost starship.   
  
The book contains spells and incantations to enable a safe passage to the next world. She appreciates the mentality behind it, none of this "what is reality" crap, just an outline of what to expect and how to deal with it. Practical, sensible.   
  
  
The little girl barreling down the corridor -- "Can't catch me, Tom, I'm too fast for you!" -- is wearing her face. Oh sure, there are a couple of horns on the forehead, but she distinctly remembers seeing that face in the mirror thirty years ago.   
  
Naomi rounds a corner and runs into Kathryn. "Captain!" she squeaks, but Kathryn only reminds her that the corridors are not a playground. But what else does the kid have? But Kathryn knows that at age ten, she would have killed for a life like this, living in space with all of these adults who cared about her.   
  
Hell, at forty-two she'd kill for a life like this. But there doesn't seem to be much point now, does there?   
  
  
Late at night, she cries, because the pain has moved to her chest, and she's going to die soon, and oh fuck, Owen was right, she could have been a captain, and now she's nothing but a retired, divorced science officer.   
  
  
She reads through the Book of the Dead. The Egyptians weren't great theorists, but they were practical. The pyramids built with a tiny opening in the apex, and were arranged so that, when the time was right, the light of one star would shine through the hole. Those pharaohs had a pretty good deal, Kathryn decides: a whole nation concerned with your life and death, and a nice view from your sarcophagus.   
  
  
The pain has moved to her head, and she's sure that if she doesn't die soon she'll go crazy with it. If she's not crazy all ready, but the Voyager hallucinations, Borg and all, seem fairly benign as insanity goes.   
  
With difficulty, she manages to get out of bed and stagger to the window. The effort to open the curtain is almost too much for her, and for a minute she thinks she's gone. But then the heavy material slides aside, and she collapses in a chair to look at the stars.   
  
  
Chakotay finds her in her ready room, staring out the window. For a moment he is worried; she seems almost hypnotised by the stars. Then she turns around and smiles at him.   
  
"Are you all right?" he asks.   
  
She tilts her head, thinking, and then gives him her characteristic half smile. "Just a little tired. And I have a headache."   
  
He smiles back, knowing where this is leading. "You *could* see the doctor," he suggests as he positions his hands on her neck.   
  
Kathryn says nothing, but he sees the reflection of her smile in the window. She stares out at the stars for a few moments, and then closes her eyes.   
  
END   
  
Feedback and chocolate: elizabeth_barr@yahoo.com.au   
  



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